All The Queen's Men
by Wanderer of the Roads
Summary: One woman decides to make him see. LancelotOC. Oneshot.


One woman decides to make him see

_All The Queen's Men_

One woman decides to make him see.

Oneshot

A/N: A rather cryptic oneshot after a long break from King Arthur fanfic, make what you will of it. Maybe you would understand it better than I do. Please excuse any inconsistency in grammar, I find it hard to write in first person POV, but I wanted to make it more personal and intimate. Constructive criticism welcome as always!

--

I have watched him many a night, in the pointless and boisterous feasts King Arthur throws in the grand halls of Camelot. I have heard in court that it is the Queen's idea to hold these lavish affairs. It is no secret that she loves boasting her bottomless wardrobe of dresses and her glorious beauty.

If that is indeed the case, she need not ever fear a lack of an audience. _He_ is always the first to gallantly sweep to her side to sing her praises, his handsome head bowing low over her hand in respect for his brother-in-arms' wife. He would then straighten and she would lean forward to whisper quickly in his ear.

I know precisely what she says without having to hear the words. I have, unfortunately, stumbled upon their passionate rendezvous too many times for my liking.

Now, I am a grown woman and have had my fair share of illicit affairs. Women of my origin and wealth (I am the only daughter of a retired Consul, heiress to properties from Rome to Egypt to Cornwall) tend not to squander their youth knitting by a fire. However, I am neither queen of Britain nor am I married to a man so utterly and hopelessly devoted to me that he would send a fleet to the Persian seas just to fetch me a necklace of black pearls on my nonchalant request. And I would definitely consider it decadent to frolic with my husband's first knight and lifelong comrade while he is away conducting diplomacy with stubborn Scottish kings.

In short, Queen Guinevere disgusts me.

It is rather unpatriotic of me to my own sex for laying the larger part of the blame on the female counterpart of this illegitimate relationship, but I must admit that I have a weakness for Sir Lancelot- as all women do.

I was amongst those who received the wounded and dying at Badon Hill during the battle against the Saxons. I confess, that was owing to my neglectful disposition rather than any noble intention, having missed my father's carriage on that fateful day.

Lancelot had come close to death. I still remember Arthur himself carrying his unconscious friend in, no triumph in his eyes even though his army had prevailed. I was discharged from my duties before Lancelot came round, but my colleagues told me that Arthur hardly left the side of his bed till he did.

I am aware that I have done nothing to justify my bias for Sir Lancelot. If anything, my story condemns his act of betrayal and hammers in his guilt. I suppose my irrationality makes it perfectly clear that I am absolutely bewitched by Lancelot.

He knows me as well as I know him. No, that is a lie. He hardly knows me at all. As I have mentioned, I see him at least once every fortnight in King Arthur's castle, and sometimes on the streets, in the stables or at the tavern. I am but a shadow in his vibrant social circle. I am ashamed to confess that I recall the exact contents of each and every of the few conversation we have shared.

Yes, I am mindful of the fact that I tend to act like a naïve adolescent in his presence.

I am also aware that I hold him in a much higher regard than he actually deserves. I know he is brave and valiant in battle, as well as a loyal comrade and a faithful friend- or is he?- but he is also known for his libertine ways. No fewer than six of my friends have he seduced and forsaken in search of another's company.

But he always returns to one. The only one he cannot have.

--

Tonight the finest of high society were called upon to feast, drink and dance into the wee hours of morning, yet again. I graciously obliged.

I dressed myself in a fine silk dress of green, my brown locks pulled back from my powdered face. I do not know why I attend these occasions of inane merrymaking, the late hours do nothing for my skin nor does the alcohol profit my health.

Maybe, just maybe, I turn up to see him.

He was very handsome tonight, as he always is, clothed in a simple black tunic and breeches. His hair glistened in the warm light cast by numerous candles in the hall- wet, perhaps, from an earlier bath.

An acquaintance of mine had just caught my eye across the crowded floor when the trumpets sang importantly.

The King and Queen had arrived.

I courteously dipped my head as the royal couple glided into the hall with all the grace they were expected to display, and from the corner of my eye I saw Lancelot staring at Guinevere- a vision in white- with something in his eye that was deemed much less than proper.

I narrowed my eyes as he confidently strode across the marble floor to embrace Arthur in a brotherly manner, then turned to his wife, as always bowing over her hand in a sort of admiring worship, a meaningful smile playing on his lips.

She did not even wait for Arthur's departure to whisper the same words of promise in his ear.

The glass in my hand shattered without me noticing.

My companions, as any lady would instinctively do, panicked at the sight of blood running down my arm. I was whisked to the side of Sir Dagonet, who was the only skilled healer in close proximity.

Dagonet is no stranger to me. My father, an enthusiastic scientist, consults Arthur's most trusted healer regularly on mysteries of the body that elude him. The gentle giant supervised my brief apprenticeship at the healing rooms, and now I followed him there, a peculiar feeling stirring in my empty stomach.

I sat in a chair while Dagonet conjured up bandages and gin for my fresh wounds. I watched as blood welled out of the deep cut in my palm.

"Thank the gods it is your left hand that is injured," said Dagonet with a reassuring smile. "At the very least you would still be able to write."

"I see Father has taken the liberty of reveal my secret indulgence in historical writing," I replied with a grimace.

"What is the subject of your study?"

"At the moment, it is Hannibal of Carthage."

"I believe Arthur greatly admires him as a strategist."

"Oh yes, Hannibal was a superb military man. Much like our king, I suppose," I paused, then added as an afterthought. "Only much cleverer."

I merely bit the insides of my mouth as Dagonet cleansed my wound with gin. I used to be a careless child. I boast scars resulted from falling down stairs and tumbling off rooftops. Shattered glass might be a first but the pain was hardly daunting.

"Is the Queen going to bear her husband an heir soon?" I asked abruptly, moving my hand to make Dagonet's task of bandaging it easier.

Dagonet's eyes flickered. "Why do you ask?"

"I am simply wondering," I said with an offhand shrug. "It has been five years since the battle was won. People talk, you know. And knowing that she is seeing-"

I halted, rather deliberately, just to see his reaction.

Dagonet silently finished the bandaging off with a small knot, and stood up. He gave me a stern look, then left me without another word.

So I supposed he knew as well. I tentatively moved my fingers, and winced when a stab of pain attacked my palm.

I wondered if Guinevere ever felt a stab like that- but one of guilt?

--

My friend had fallen in love with a commoner- the smithy's apprentice, to be precise- and she made me go to the tavern with her to meet him without her parents' consent.

The thrill of breaking rules never gets old, I still felt like the fifteen-year-old I was twelve years ago as we crept through the manicured gardens of our neighbours, stumbled down narrow alleyways and ran towards the brightly lit, rowdy tavern like moths to a light.

I drew in a sharp breath when I saw him there, sitting at a table with his fellow knights, nursing a mug of ale. I purposely looked away from him, instead focusing on assisting my friend's hunt for her lover.

Unfortunately, it was over in a couple of minutes. I was left standing alone in the middle of the tavern.

I wound my way to the bar, and demanded an ale. My heart stopped when his voice piped up beside me, echoing my request.

"I remember you. You are the Roman scientist's daughter. Lucia, is it not?"

I turned to look him straight in the eyes. I was surprised at the warmth I saw there- he must be rather drunk, considering the fact that he hated Romans, and made no secret of it. Although he does not seem to mind when it comes to more pleasurable deeds.

"And you are Sir Lancelot," I replied rather stiffly.

He smiled, unperturbed by my coldness. "Does your father approve of your nocturnal activities?"

"I am old enough to act as I please."

"But is it befitting of a lady of your standing?"

"Befitting? Are you suggesting I am not acting within the bounds of propriety?" I demanded defiantly.

He grinned at my tone. "I merely wonder if the bounds of propriety stretch so far as to allow a lone lady to drink at a lowly tavern at such a late hour."

I lifted my chin. "I concede that the decency of my nocturnal activities is of contention. However, I am quite certain that yours fall decisively on the side of impropriety, sir."

I watched the glint fade slowly from his still smiling eyes. And what beautiful eyes they were.

"You don't know what you talk about," he said at last, shifting his feet with just a touch of hostility in his voice.

"I think I know perfectly well what I'm talking about," I replied self-assuredly. "The King may be blissfully ignorant of what happens behind his back, but half the court know already."

One of the tavern wenches dumped two mugs almost violently in front of us, spilling a considerable amount of our drinks onto the worn wooden bar.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he asked suddenly, pinning me with a glare so piercing that I took a step back. He picked that up, and smiled grimly. "I never strike women, if it somehow comforts you."

How dare he mock me!

"Of course not, Sir Knight," I snapped, sarcasm dripping from my tongue. "You just use them and gallantly cast them aside. How would I expect any less of you?"

We glared at each other, for how long I did not know. How could one think of anything as trivial as time when one is staring into those black, soulful depths?

It was not until Sir Gawain, clearly intoxicated, crashed into Lancelot did I realise I had been standing there for far too long.

Without taking my drink or looking back at him, I quickly turned around and left the tavern.

--

I was just dousing out the candles in the King's library when I realised that I had forgotten to collect the herbs father had asked me to fetch for him in the afternoon. With an irritated sigh, I hastily put away the maps and scrolls I had been studying, and hurried out towards Dagonet's garden.

The corridors were empty on my way towards the south of the palace. I decided to take a short cut through the Queen's private gardens, which would take me directly to my destination. Walking across the damp grass, I approached the high wall of well-trimmed bushes that kept Queen Guinevere's beautiful garden from sight. I easily found the sparsely grown part of the bush I often used as a tunnel to get to the other side, and proceeded to make my way through, half-crouching, half-crawling.

I cursed under my breath when a wayward branch somehow got tangled in the lacings of my dress. That was when I saw two pairs of feet appearing at the end of the tunnel, and heard what sounded like fervent liplocking.

Goddamnit.

I tried not to move, but with leaves in my eyes, a sharp stone under my knee and a branch poking at my ribs, it was not an easy feat. And by the sound of it, the couple was not going anywhere any time soon.

Despite all this I was holding up very well until the Queen of Britain decided that she wanted to get fucked on the grass.

I could not help it. I screamed.

By the time the shock passed, I had been dragged out of the bushes, Guinevere had vanished, and Lancelot was glaring down at me.

"What, in the name of the gods, are you doing here?" he asked through gritted teeth.

I was blushing furiously, but I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Just passing by."

"Just passing by? The Queen's private garden? At this time of the night?" he barked at me.

My temper flared at his tone, even though his hair was endearingly tousled and his tunic rumpled. Quite like a child, I thought at the back of my head. But I retorted, "And what did you think _you_ were doing? Anyone could have seen you!"

Lancelot leaned forward and literally ground his teeth in my face. "For your information, no one is _allowed_ into these gardens. Least of all _you_."

"What if the King found you?" I hissed. "Are you out of your _mind_?"

"It's none of your concern," he said fiercely, eyes flashing.

I snorted mirthlessly. "Is it not? Do I not owe allegiance to my King? Do _you_ not?"

A short bark of laughter escaped him. "Allegiance? What do Romans know of allegiance?"

I fought the urge to scream. Instead, I said scathingly, "I suppose Sarmatians know all about it then? Shame that you should put a black mark on all your fellow countrymen's otherwise clean slate."

Sometime during my speech he had turned away from me, but now he spun around and pinned me with a dark glare. "Why do you care? What does this have to do to you? Do you _love_ Arthur?"

I balked at the idea. Arthur and I have been friends since we were toddlers, for heaven's sake. And he knew it.

I crossed my arms defensively. "I love the King as a loyal subject should, just as you should love him as a brother and the Queen should love him as a husband."

Lancelot smirked, running a hand through his hair, a picture of lofty impassiveness. "She does not love him."

I scoffed. "That is what _you _would have yourself believe." I paused. "Does she love you then?" I countered bravely.

The answer was prompt and sure. "No."

To say that I was surprised was an understatement. I stared at him, his beautifully sculpted face turned away from the moonlight, his eyes cast downward, his proud head hanging like a defeated warrior.

The words came out without me noticing. "You are a fool."

He shrugged indifferently. "Think what you will."

An unexplainable feeling of sadness dawned upon me as he turned to walk away.

"Surely the King deserves to know," I called after him. "He loves you, Lancelot, he loves you both, even though you don't deserve it."

At that, he stopped, and turned to look at me.

"Who are you to judge me, my lady?" he asked quietly.

Someone who believes in your honour, despite the path of betrayal you have walked.

Someone who believes you deserve true affection, despite your scorn for it.

"No one," I replied at long last. "I am no one."

After all, I am just another fallen woman.

--

The royal heir was born in the midst of a wild winter storm. It was a healthy baby boy, with his mother's delicate nose and a mop of wild curls on his blessed head. I took one glance at him and smiled grimly, meeting his eyes across the room.

He held my gaze haughtily, and the resigned vulnerability in the gardens seemed like a distant dream.

That was until Arthur asked him to hold the baby.

One would not have seen the fleeting cloud of fear that crossed his face unless one was looking for it. He hid it quickly, a wide roguish grin on his face as he walked towards the bed, slapping his King proudly on his back as he cradled the babe in his arms.

With exaggerated care, as all new fathers do, Arthur gently planted his heir into the cradle of Lancelot's arms.

I would have laughed at the irony of the picture they made if it were not such a beautiful one. Lancelot looked at the child in his arms with tenderness that one would not expect from a man like him, while Guinevere watched him with a tired smile. Arthur's eyes seemed to be transfixed on the child, as he reached up his tiny fingers to touch Lancelot's chin.

"What have you named him?" asked Lancelot, not looking up.

Arthur took his wife's hand and looked at her mischievously, as if asking for consent. She rolled her eyes and said good-humouredly, "The short answer is Antonius. I shall leave it to Arthur to make up the rest."

"Do you like it?" asked Arthur with almost childish delight.

Lancelot nodded, finally tearing his eyes from the future king long enough to flash a grin at his brother-in-arms. "Yes."

--

I noticed how she no longer whispered in his ear anymore, and how he stopped following her around like a besotted fool. He started seeking out women- duchesses and seamstresses, ladies and whores- to accompany him through the long winter nights. Just like old times.

I knew because my foolish friends once again fell victim to his charms. At night they warmed his bed, the morning after they cried in mine.

I told him one night that he had better stop preying on my innocent friends. We were standing on the balcony, even though it was bitterly cold, looking out into the black waves crashing against the jagged cliff beneath us.

He turned his head towards me and grinned. "Are you jealous?"

I conceded a small smile. "Your arrogance knows no bounds, does it?"

"Admit it, my lady, and I might give you the remedy to your ailment," he said suggestively.

"The remedy to my 'ailment', as you put it, is your self-control, dear sir."

Lancelot laughed. "Self-control? I'm afraid that is not my style, my lady."

"Surely a grown man like you is brave enough to sleep in your bed alone?" I teased.

"You have no idea how I fear loneliness," he answered.

I peered at him, pondering on the half-truth of his confession.

I reached out and touched the side of his face, sliding my fingers down his rough stubble. I tilted my head and smiled.

"You are a fool," I told him.

He smiled easily, catching my hand. "And who are you to judge, my lady?"

I shook my head and smiled too, "No one. I am no one."


End file.
